A Pearl of Great Price
by GoodMorningMoon
Summary: George vanishes after coming back early from his book tour. Can Effie, Julia, and the Station House Four crew bring him home safely? Spoilers for 13x17, speculation for 13x18.
1. Chapter 1

Written between 13x17 and 13x18 because I couldn't handle not knowing what's going on with George. Spoilers for the first episode, speculation for the second. Crossposted to the Other Place; no permission given to put it anywhere else. Murdoch Mysteries aren't mine. Huge thanks to everyone who makes them happen.

* * *

Inspector Thomas Brackenreid stood up from his desk as Effie Newsome and Constable Higgins nearly burst in to his office, both of their faces etched with worry.

"Sir, it's George," Henry blurted without preamble, sounding genuinely alarmed.

Brackenreid felt his heart skip a beat. "What about him, then?" He glanced at the calendar, and his eyes widened. "He's not supposed to be back to Toronto for another week at least, is he?"

"That was the plan," Effie said, her voice high and urgent. Brackenreid noticed she was turning a black bowler hat around in her hands. _That's a bad sign. _"But Percy telephoned the station house this morning looking for him. Apparently he came back to the city two days ago."

"Percy," repeated the inspector. "Percy who?"

"Percival Emerson. George's agent from the publishing house. He said the book is so popular that they've had to interrupt George's tour until they could print more copies. He's been trying to reach George at his boarding house to let him know about the new schedule."

"And he's not been there," Brackenreid prompted.

"No, sir," said Higgins. "His landlady was expecting him home at the same time we were."

Brackenreid swallowed. "And you've been to the train station and made inquiries there."

"Yes, sir." Henry took a breath before continuing, long enough for Effie to break in.

"Inspector, the porter had his hat." She lifted it to show him. "Here, his name is in the band. The porter saw him leaving very briskly with a young blonde woman in a grey dress with a light blue lace capelet. He called after them to return the hat, loudly enough for them to hear, but neither turned around. And no one has heard from him since."

Brackenreid set down his glass of scotch, walked to the door, and bellowed. "_Murdoch! Watts!_"

* * *

"Well, sirs, we've interviewed the crew members of the train that George took from Montreal, and they do recall seeing a young woman matching the description provided by the porter." Any hint of Higgins' usual lackadaisical demeanour was absent, replaced by a deadly seriousness. The entire bullpen was silent, eavesdropping on his report.

"And what have you learned?" Detective Murdoch said tightly.

"It appears this woman boarded the train separately from George in Montreal, and they had no contact during the journey. It doesn't appear that he knew her."

"But he left the train station with her. Could she have abducted him?"

"It's looking that way, sir."

Brackenreid exhaled, and looked skyward. "And what else do we know about her?"

"The porters and lounge attendants reported that her behaviour was quite erratic, and that she was unaccompanied by any luggage. She was holding a copy of George's book, frequently thumbing through it and muttering something about pearls and rhododendrons as she marked annotations in the margins."

"Do we have a _name_, sunshine." The inspector's tone was low and menacing.

Higgins hesitated, and Brackenreid grew pink. Watts broke in. "No, sir, not yet. But we have the book. She must have dropped it as she hustled George away. Only the sections about George's Aunt Rhoda are marked. This woman must have some connection to her."

"Never thought we'd need to remember anything about all those aunts Crabtree always blathers about…" Brackenreid muttered.

"I remember all of it, sir."

"Course you do, Murdoch."

"It's not as if I choose to, sir. But I don't recall ever hearing George speak about an Aunt Rhoda. The only time I've seen her mentioned is in his book."

"So she must not have been at the, ah, rectory for very long." Watts cleared his throat. "Perhaps we could contact his other aunts for some information about her."

"Right away, sirs. I'll telephone Aunt Azalea." Henry practically sprinted back to his desk.

* * *

George had lost all sense of time. He could barely remember that that he had not always been in this room, tied to this chair, subject to the cruel whims of this unhinged woman who somehow… blamed him for the loss of her mother? Everything hurt, and he could not recall the last time he had eaten. His mind was a jumbled mess of pain and fear and dreams of food.

She had been giving him water from a pitcher on the table, and had he had his faculties about him he would have noticed that she never drank from it herself. He was exhausted, and the water only addled him more. Was it spiked? Probably.

Every time he drifted off, the woman would jab him hard in the centre of his chest, shout at him, forbid him to sleep. Manic energy crackled off her as she flitted around the room speaking words that increasingly sounded like so much gibberish.

Nina murmured in his ear. _You are the best man I've ever known._ He felt her breath on his neck.

Edna stroked his forehead as he held her farewell letter in his hand. _I love you and I will miss you always._ He thought he felt a tear run out of the corner of his eye.

_George! You're alive!_ William Murdoch beamed at him, and rushed to enfold him in a warm embrace. He smelled… different, muskier, the way he had when George had shepherded him home from Haileybury. Lord, it was good to see him, to feel his solid muscular warmth.

He was six years old, hidden in a fortress he had made of blankets next to his bed. He liked to go there to feel safe and look at his picture books. His aunts, bless them, knew not to disturb him until he was ready to come out, at least not until dinnertime. He wondered what was for dinner tonight. Was it Sunday? Sunday was always Jiggs' dinner. He loved Jiggs' dinner. He could all but taste the corned beef, the cabbage, the split peas, the potatoes and carrots, the dumplings melting in his mouth. Aunt Fern made the best dumplings. The only thing he disliked about Sundays was that he would have to go to school the next morning.

Another sharp poke in the chest, and he slammed back into the waking nightmare.

His foot throbbed. His head ached. His ear stung. His wrists burned. His throat hurt. She had squeezed it again, more than once, and every breath was painful.

He had no idea how many times she had kissed him. His entire body sang in visceral disgust at the thought. Perhaps it would be preferable to die than endure this Hell one moment longer. Perhaps he could taunt her to the point of ending him.

There was a noise in the hall. Amelia dove for her gun.

* * *

A small army, guns drawn, stood peering into the broken doorway. Higgins and Brackenreid had hit it so hard with the battering ram that the entire door fell into the room, and the inspector held up a hand so he and Murdoch could assess the scene.

A haggard Crabtree, his gaunt face shadowed with days' worth of stubble, stared out with unseeing, haunted eyes. A cheerful woman held a revolver to his head.

"Hello, everyone!" she greeted the assemblage brightly, ignoring all the guns pointed toward her. "I suppose you're here for George?" Her eyes glittered as she glanced back and forth between the crowd at the door and the man bound to the chair. "Well, you can't have him. He's mine."

Julia inhaled sharply, the situation sickeningly, viscerally familiar. For a moment she was back at the asylum, Rose Maxwell rushing at her with a pipe. The all too familiar rush of adrenaline flooded in, quickening her pulse. She did her best to dismiss it, detach from it, engage the clinical part of her brain. She was briefly torn between evaluating this woman's condition, and examining George. She looked from one to the other. George looked so awful that she knew immediately there was no choice but to start with attention to him.

In the odd timelessness of crisis she was able to take in a great deal.

_George. _

Sunken, dull eyes_, _the darkest of circles underneath. Pinpoints for pupils. Pale skin, almost translucent, stretched too tight across his familiar features.

_He hardly looks himself at all. Dehydrated. Likely sleep-deprived and malnourished. Clearly drugged._

She catalogued his wounds as best she could from a distance. Swollen left ear. Blood on the collar underneath. Angry red welts on his wrists from the rope. Purple and distended left foot, bulging against a too-tight bandage. Bruising around his throat.

_He resisted. Likely blunt force trauma to the foot. A blade to the ear? _

_She tried to choke him. _

White-hot rage welled up. She pushed it back down.

_He is apparently quite oblivious to his surroundings. Groggy, passive, likely compliant. No sign that he recognises us._

_Oh, George._

Julia's split-second analysis was interrupted when Effie tried to lunge forward from the back of the horde, only for three constables to restrain her. At the front, Brackenreid, Murdoch, and Watts exchanged horrified glances, silently negotiating who would reply. Murdoch gave a single nod and stepped forward.

"Miss Smythe. Kindly unhand the constable and surrender your weapon." His expression was pure flint. Julia could see the fury radiating from every inch of him.

Amelia stared back at him, eyes blazing. "I will do no such thing! Get out or I'll kill him. He's mine to do with as I wish. He took my mother from me, you know. He owes me a debt."

Julia cleared her throat. _Endogenous psychosis, it would seem. Extremely unstable, delusional, violent. Like Rose. _She felt a chill.

_Well. In Tom's words, here we go._

She tapped her husband on the shoulder, and he gave her a knowing nod. _Go ahead,_ he told her silently, and Tom nodded as well.

She put up her hands and stepped forward, sidling between William and Detective Watts. "Miss Smythe. Amelia. May I call you Amelia?"

Confusion crossed the young woman's face, and she nodded. "George calls me that. Who are you?"

"My name is Julia. Amelia, I'd like to talk to you. You've had a very hard time of it, haven't you."

Amelia regarded Doctor Ogden sceptically for a moment as Julia adopted the kindest expression she could muster. Amelia's eyes finally softened, just a little. "Yes." It was no louder than a whisper. "Yes, I have."

"And you feel that George is responsible."

Amelia gripped him and the gun harder, and George's head lolled. "I was six years old. He didn't need her. He should have sent her back to me."

"You felt abandoned."

"I did. And it was _his fault._" Her face abruptly hardened again, and a smile started to curl at the corners of her mouth. "Oh, no. No, no, no. I see what you're doing. You're trying to win me over to get me to let him go. No. He's mine. You all leave, or he dies."

Julia tensed, becoming intensely aware of Henry's laboured breathing just behind her. Alarm buzzed through her veins like electricity. _Don't do it, Henry. Don't say a word._

Henry could contain himself no longer. "Put the gun _down_, Miss Smythe!"

"_Higgins! Shut it!_" Brackenreid hissed.

"Higgins, is it?" Amelia was beaming now. "George spoke of you. He's very fond of you, despite your ineptitude. I'm glad you'll get to watch this. It's right that your horror will be the last thing he sees." She cocked the revolver and pressed the muzzle harder into George's temple.

A shot rang out, and then another. George's head snapped to one side, and Amelia jerked backward onto the floor. Effie started to scream.


	2. Chapter 2

Try as he might, Detective Watts could not detach himself from the horror that had just played out in front of him. It was a crime scene now, he tried to tell himself, and he knew what to do with a crime scene.

Blood was roaring in his ears. For a moment he was back in the darkened church at Yonge and Heath, Gus Jackson dying next to him, a desperate Crabtree breathing in ragged gasps as blood seeped around the hot bullet in his shoulder. He recalled the scene in the morgue as he held Crabtree down, heard his yelps and screams, talked him through Miss James' impromptu surgery to save his life. Seeing him wounded that way had been bad enough. Watts could not even look at the man now: he knew he could not bear to see him dead, or worse, watch him die.

He wished to utter a prayer. But to whom? The Jewish G-d of his heritage? The Christian one that sustained the landlady who raised him? The Greek goddesses his sister held in such reverent regard?

He could not choose, and thus decided to send it out to whoever might be listening. _Let George live. Let George be well._

Doctor Ogden was rushing to the man in the chair, crouching next to him, yanking off her gloves and tossing them to the floor. "George! Stay with me!"

_He's alive?_

"George, your neck is bleeding badly. I'm going to have to press on it, quite firmly. I'm sorry." His eyes widened as he heard George grunt in response.

_His neck! Not his head! _

Llewellyn wondered whether he dared allow himself a glimmer of hope. It flared up anyway, before he could decide to shoo it away, and he could not resist looking up at the constable. _He's alive!_

George's breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. _He's breathing!_ Watts was elated. The glimmer flickered even more brightly.

It died back down immediately, though, at the sight of the blood gushing freely from the side of George's neck. His shirt and waistcoat were already soaked as Doctor Ogden clasped her bare hands on the wound to try to stanch the flow. "Clean cloths. I need clean cloths. Tea towels. Something, immediately. We have to stop the bleeding and get him to the hospital. We need an ambulance carriage."

"McNabb!" barked the inspector. "See to it!"

"Right away, sir," the burly man replied, sprinting out the door toward the nearest call box.

Watts felt rooted to the ground, his head buzzing as he became aware of the flurry of activity around him. Henry was throwing drawers open looking for the towels. Detective Murdoch and Miss Newsome were kneeling next to the injured man to untie his wrists, and Brackenreid was down at his right ankle to free it as well. Henry burst back with at least six white towels and thrust them toward Doctor Ogden.

"I can't let go for that long, Henry. Take the first towel and put it between my hands."

Henry recoiled at the request, clearly uncomfortable with getting so near the blood. Watts watched him swallow hard, and place the towel as he had been asked.

"Thank you, Henry. The others can go right there on the table." Blood dripped between the fingers that she was rearranging around the towel, loosening her grip on the wound for as short a time as possible. Henry stepped back, ashen, and began to pace the floor. It was clear he was having a hard time catching his breath. _The man must be consumed by guilt_, Watts surmised. _He eliminated the threat and reduced the harm to George, but George was further harmed nonetheless. I shall have to speak with him. _Llewellyn Watts knew far more than he wished to contemplate about feeling guilty for someone else's injury.

He refocused, and noticed two things as he observed the scene. First, Doctor Ogden was certainly the right one to have in a medical crisis: she had stepped in to lead George's care with authority and grace. Watts was most impressed. What a relief it was to have a knowledgeable professional in charge this time.

Second, and far more worrisome, was what he saw happening each time someone touched George. The man grimaced and flinched each time fingers or palms (or Effie's lips) made contact with his skin. In an instant he knew what was wrong.

"Stop touching him," he said firmly.

Everyone stared, Murdoch in particular looking irritated and perplexed. "Watts? Come now! How else would we free him?"

"And how do you propose I stop the bleeding without touching him? What are you thinking, Llewellyn?" Doctor Ogden sounded annoyed as well, as she pressed a second tea towel to the top of the blood-soaked first one.

"Of course I didn't mean you, Doctor. But the rest of you. You see him resisting, do you not? He… he thinks we're Miss Smythe." The thought made him sick to his stomach. "Look at him. He doesn't even recognise us. We mustn't touch him any more than is absolutely necessary. He doesn't know iiiiit's… not she."

"Dear God," Brackenreid muttered, clearly shaken as he fully grasped Watts' words.

The fight immediately went out of Julia, and she nodded ruefully. "Of course. Very good, Llewellyn. I'm sorry. He's deeply traumatised. He needs us to be as gentle as we can right now." She pressed the towels harder to George's neck, and leaned toward his ear. "It's Julia, George. It's Doctor Ogden. You're safe. I'm sorry, George. I'm so sorry." She grimaced, and shook her head before she continued. "The rest of you here. Finish untying him, and touch him as little as possible, if you please. Tom, would you elevate his foot and get that bandage off it. It's most likely done more harm than good by now."

"Sir?" one of the other constables ventured.

"What is it, Jenkins?" Brackenreid practically snarled at the man. The inspector's fear, as it usually did, was manifesting itself as anger.

"Uh, sir, Miss Smythe."

"What about her?"

"Well, she's dead, sir."

"So I gathered, sunshine!"

"Well, sir, there's a problem. With Miss Hart in the cells, we don't have a coroner. Whom shall I call to the scene?"

Doctor Ogden caught Brackenreid's eye as he gingerly unwound the bandage from George's foot, and shook her head. "I can't, Tom. George. He's bleeding so much I'll likely have to open his neck at the hospital to repair the vein."

"Right, then, Jenkins, she'll have to wait. Take as many photographs as you can. We'll fetch the body to the morgue, and try the coroner in Hamilton."

There was a loud knock on the doorframe, and McNabb welcomed two ambulance attendants bearing a stretcher. Watts swooped out of their way, nearly losing his balance, and the men arrived at George's side.

One of them, a young blond man, addressed Doctor Ogden. "All right, ma'am, we'll take it from here."

"You'll do no such thing." Watts did not recall ever hearing her be so brusque.

The other attendant, a lanky young man with darker hair, laughed aloud. "And who might you be to tell us that?"

"You are medical students, are you not?" They nodded. "Well, I am a qualified surgeon on staff at Toronto Mercy Hospital. I will remain in charge of this man's care."

"Charles! It's Doctor Ogden!" the blond man whispered to his companion, who gawped in obvious disbelief as he backed away.

Brackenreid nearly smiled, his eyes cold. "Don't try her, son."

"Let's get him onto that stretcher. We must transport him to Toronto Mercy immediately. The wound does not appear to be particularly deep, but given the volume of blood he's losing, there appears to be damage to the external jugular vein. I'll likely need to resect the compromised section and perform an end-to-end anastomosis..."

Watts was utterly lost as he witnessed the inspector and Detective Murdoch carefully lift the wounded man onto the stretcher while Doctor Ogden maintained the pressure on his neck. George looked far worse than he had that ghastly night in the morgue, and this time Watts saw no way to be of help. He felt sick as he watched George borne out what remained of the door.

* * *

George was lying face down in Professor Bennett's office, silently reeling from the impact of the shot to the back of his bulletproof vest. It knocked the wind out of him, and it hurt far more than he'd imagined. He hardly had to feign injury as they'd planned. Murdoch's hand was on his back. He heard shouting. _Don't just stand there, man, call an ambulance!_

He was flat on his back on the floor of a church, searing pain erupting throughout his shoulder. Higgins and Jackson moaned nearby. Watts caught him as he tried to sit up. Bless Watts. He lay back down and closed his eyes. _He's for the morgue. I'll handle that._

He was on the table in the morgue. Watts held him down with gentle hands, anaesthetised him, soothed him. _Hold him. _He heard himself scream as Miss James dug the bullet out of his chest. _It's all right, George. It's all right. Steady on, George. It's all right._

He was sinking to his knees, fighting in darkness against a sweet-smelling cloth pressed roughly to his face. His limbs started to drift away. He startled awake to brilliant sunlight, nursing a roaring headache, covered in the mud of a farmer's field.

He was sitting on a crate on a busy corner, his ears ringing from the explosion that would knock Henry out for days. Acrid smoke filled his lungs, and blood trickled from his temple down his cheek. He was so dizzy. He had to help the detective. He tried to stand, but the inspector's meaty hand on his shoulder gently pushed him back down. _Stay where you are, Crabtree. Detective Murdoch will be fine._

He was moving, somehow. It was too dark to make out where, or how. Someone was speaking to him. A woman, most likely. He struggled to recognise the voice. Edna? Effie? Nina. No, not Nina. Maud? Aunt Dahlia? Aunt Rhoda?

Aunt Rhoda. Poor Aunt Rhoda. Aunt Azalea had once called her "the pearl of the rectory."

The name "Pearl Smythe" glided past.

Oh.

_Oh._

_Amelia._

The ordeal of the past two days came rushing back, and his heart sank even as it started to pound. It was difficult to see. Something was pressing hard on his neck. _Oh God, she's trying to choke me again—_

There were many hands. Whose were they? Did they even exist? Were they Amelia's? He shuddered. He didn't want her touching him, ever again. He tried to shy away.

The voice continued speaking. "George! Shhh. George. Relax. She's gone, George. You're free. We're going to take good care of you, George. We're taking you to the hospital. You're safe now. You're safe."

The voice kept up a steady, comforting patter. It was familiar, somehow. It didn't sound like Amelia. It took time, but finally he recognised it. Was it real? Or another trick of the mind?

He had to believe it was real.

"Doctor Ogden…" he rasped, and began to cough, shaking against the painful pressure on his neck.

"Yes, George, yes, yes, yes. It's me. It's Julia. Shhh. Just lie still and let us look after you. Lie still. You're bleeding. I'm trying to stop the flow. You're with us now. Let us help you, George. Shhh."

George's whole body slackened with relief. He watched as the world faded away.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you so much to everyone reading - I can't tell you how much I appreciate the views and especially the feedback. (Hi, RG! You're keeping me going! And thank you Kiki!) We'll know tomorrow night how much I got wrong (a lot, I hope). Thanks to ReaderofMuch on the MM Discord for the ideas about Watts' crisis of faith in Chapter 2. Here's the third and final chapter. Please review!

* * *

Henry Higgins was beside himself. He had not stopped pacing about the room since he had found the towels to soak up George's blood, and by now he was nearly hyperventilating. It had been bad enough when he'd thought George dead three years ago—the empty desk across from him in the bullpen a constant reminder of the man's absence—but to know now that it might be vacant for good, by his own hand… it was too much to bear.

"I killed him, sir. I killed George. I killed my best friend." He started to rock back and forth.

"Shut it, Higgins," the inspector told him, not unkindly this time, and tried to guide him to a chair, though they both steered far clear of the one where George had been held captive for days. "He was alive when he left here and Doctor Ogden will look after him. He couldn't be in better hands. He'll be right as rain before you know it."

"No, it's my fault," sniffled Effie. "I should never have pushed him to publish that book. He was so reluctant. I should have listened to him."

"It wasn't you, Effie. I'm the one who pulled the trigger. I'm the one responsible."

Brackenreid was losing patience. "Enough, both of ye. Higgins! Crabtree's not dead. You shot the one who was completely off her trolley. She's the one who shot Crabtree. Now we don't make a rule of firing first, and I'll gladly fire _you_ if you ever do it again, but if you hadn't done it this time, Crabtree _would_ be dead. Now he's got a fighting chance."

Henry looked up, his eyes full of sadness and hope. "You really think so, sir?"

"I do indeed, Higgins."

Henry took a deep breath. The inspector was almost never this kind to him. Sometimes it was easy to forget how much he cared about his men.

"And as for you, Miss Newsome"—she lifted her tear-stained face to the older man, and he took her hand—"you've not done George wrong either. His book is a great success, and you couldn't have known about… this." He gestured toward Amelia's body, and Henry thought he saw him shudder. "Like I said. He'll be right as rain. Now both of you. Get it together and we'll go wait for news at the hospital."

Henry felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Watts. The compassion in the man's eyes was overwhelming. _I know what it's like_, he said without words. Something loosened in Henry's chest, and he started to cry.

* * *

Thomas Brackenreid shuffled into the house, laid his hat on the table, loosened his tie, and sank into a chair. He was thoroughly, utterly knackered.

He heard his wife approach behind him, and grunted. "Margaret." He hoped she had no bones to pick with him this evening. If she did, he would just let her win. He thought he might fall asleep for the night in this very chair. It seemed such a chore to make his way up to bed.

"Thomas," she answered, and came around the side of his chair into his field of view. She handed him a glass of scotch.

His eyebrows rose in amazement. _Margaret, Temperance League member, handing me a drink?_

She sat down next to him and regarded him kindly. "Is he going to be all right?"

He drew a deep breath. "Crabtree? He'll be right as rain." He took a mouthful of the amber liquid and held it for a moment on his tongue, taking pleasure in the peaty burn. _Ah, there it is. _A bit of the day's tension drained out of him.

Margaret smirked a little. "You always say that, Thomas. How is he, really?"

"He's—wait. How d'ye know we found him?"

Her smirk grew into a smile. "I have my sources at the Constabulary."

"I thought _I _was your source at the Constabulary!"

"Well, yes, Thomas, but you're not the only one." There was a hint of mischief in her eyes.

He shook his head. He hadn't any energy to push her on this one tonight. He'd have to find the leak later.

"George is alive. Barmy woman read his book and decided he stole her mother when he was a mere lad. Had him tied to a chair the whole time he was missing. Broke his foot. Drugged him. Never fed him. Barely even gave him water. Shot him in the neck when we showed up. If Higgins hadn't shot her first, Crabtree'd have the bullet in his head. He made it through surgery, but he'll need a lot of rest."

Saying it all out loud brought tears to his eyes. He'd seen so much pain in his time in Afghanistan, his decades in the Constabulary, but this kind of prolonged, deliberate torment of a man he'd come to respect deeply… it disgusted him beyond words. Margaret laid a hand on his arm, and the couple sat for a few minutes, neither saying a thing.

Margaret finally broke the silence. "He's a good man, Tom."

Tom stared at her in disbelief. "You're just full of surprises tonight, aren't you, Margaret. I mean, after that tinned meat fiasco, I thought you couldn't stand the little bugger."

"Thomas!" She swatted his arm. "Language!"

He smiled. "You knew what you were getting into when you married me, woman."

She softened, and ran her fingers down his arm to clasp his hand. "I won that cooking contest fair and square. George Crabtree may have a competitive streak, and he may not be anywhere near the chef that I am, but that doesn't mean I've not grown fond of him. I do wish him well."

"That's quite decent of you, Margaret. He's a good man indeed." He lifted the glass again, and drained it. "Higgins nearly did a jig on hearing that he'd live."

"Higgins!" Margaret snorted, clearly picturing the constable's little dance.

Thomas exhaled. There was so much more on his mind. There was still the matter of Robert Parker, and Violet Hart, but he decided against telling her about it quite yet. It would be in the papers soon enough, and God knew how it was going to go. Tonight he just wanted to sleep.

Margaret got up and kissed his forehead before she headed to the stairs. "Come to bed."

"I'll be along. I need some time to sit."

"Very well, but don't dally." She disappeared. Beloved Margaret.

Perhaps he'd have another dram.

* * *

Effie sat at her desk staring at the file in front of her, willing herself to open it. The senior partner of the firm had told her this case was one that could make or break her fledgling career as a criminal defence lawyer, and he was taking a major risk entrusting her with its success. The future and the reputation of the firm were at stake.

She stared at the folder for a while, thinking its brown shade would make for a lovely frock. Perhaps with some teal piping here and there. _Enough frivolity, Effie Newsome. Get to work_.

She was still most distracted by the events of the previous few days. George was found, and safely ensconced in a hospital bed, attended to by (_God help him_) Effie's flighty cousin Ruth, though (_fortunately for George, _she thought) Doctor Ogden had mostly been keeping him sedated to let his body heal.

The nature of George's neck wound was less serious than Julia had feared, and she had repaired the damaged vein with only a few stitches. She came out of the operating room to report that although he would almost certainly survive if he could resist infection, he was still terribly weak and in need of blood. Effie was moved to see all the lads in the bullpen line up to have blood drawn to see if they were compatible.

In the end, Henry was the match. He was elated. He looked like a weight came off him when Julia asked him to donate. _Maybe Dim Cousin-in-Law is not such a nincompoop after all…_

After the transfusion, George was already looking better: the blood restored some of his colour, and the Ringer's solution that the nurses attached to the intravenous line afterwards was rehydrating him and helping a great deal with the sunken cheeks. Ruth had managed to get a few cups of Mellin's Food into him between doses of sedative. A Doctor Phillips, apparently a specialist in orthopaedics, had looked at George's foot and determined that it might be numb for a day or two, and was not to support an ounce of weight for at least six weeks, but would almost certainly heal well.

_I suppose I shall be called upon to wait on him hand and, well, foot. _Effie chased the thought away, slightly ashamed that it had arisen at all. The inspector was right—she could never have imagined anything like this might come out of pushing George to publish his book—but looking after George as he convalesced from this debacle would be the very least she could do. She would have to make sure he stayed off his injured foot. _He can't always be trusted to do what's best for himself_.

Julia had practically shooed her from the hospital, assuring her that George was in good hands. "Right now, the things he needs most are fluids, food, rest, and time. You mentioned a new case? Go look after yourself, and your work." She gave Effie a knowing, sympathetic look, and her tone turned faintly bitter. "You know as well as I do that we professional women can't be seen as second-best." Effie had ruefully nodded in agreement, and gone home to freshen up before heading to the office.

She forced herself to open the folder so she could start reviewing the file. Violet Hart, the City Coroner, was up on a charge of culpable homicide in the death of Special Constable Robert Parker, and she was entrusted with Miss Hart's defence. This case was going to be a corker. She could practically see Louise rubbing her hands and salivating at the prospect of the juicy court reporting.

It was a shame about Mr. Parker. George had spoken highly of the man more than once, and Effie he hoped she would not have to be the one to break the news of his murder, let alone her role in Miss Hart's defence. She suspected he would not take either well. _Best to protect him for the moment while he recovers._

This would likely get ugly.

* * *

Julia had warned William that George was still far from his usual cheerful, outgoing self. He was on the mend, yes, but so far he was spending most of his time asleep. Now and then he was awake enough for Ruth to feed him, but he was still addled enough from the painkillers that so far he had seemed to have little idea of where he was or who was with him.

Julia had already stopped the morphine hours ago, knowing he didn't tolerate the withdrawal well. The last thing his exhausted body needed at the moment was violent nausea. She would keep him on the laudanum, though, for a few more days at least. His pulse was strong and steady, his neck was healing well, and the swelling on his foot was coming down. He was going to be all right.

She led her husband into the room, kissed him on the cheek, and quietly took her leave.

William sat down at George's bedside. The bandages around George's neck concealed for the most part the mottled bruises at his throat, but his purple, cast-encased foot hung suspended in midair, the most visible reminder of his ordeal. For a while, William just watched George's chest rise and fall, taking solace in his regular, effortless breaths. He, more than most people, had a visceral understanding of what George had been through.

William briefly recalled his own captivity at the hands of Eva Pearce, and shivered. He had never felt so vulnerable, or so alone. Perhaps speaking about their similar experiences at some point in the future would benefit them both. He knew Julia would surely think so.

He reached out a hand and clasped George's arm. _Be well, my friend._

George opened his eyes.

"Sir." His voice was husky and rough.

"William," William corrected him. Elation surged through him like a wave. _He's awake._

For a moment, the man in the bed looked confused. "No, I'm George."

Murdoch smiled despite himself. "I'm well aware, George. _I'm_ William. No need for rank here."

The ghost of a smile pulled at a corner of George's mouth. "Of course. William, then. Hello, sir."

Murdoch chuckled. "How are you keeping? Are you in pain?"

George thought for a while, and responded slowly. "Nnno, I don't think so. My foot itches."

"Good. Very good. Julia appears to have gotten the dosage of the laudanum right."

"Julia." He looked around the room, for the first time aware of his surroundings. "I… I… hospital."

"Yes, George. You'll likely be here several more days, perhaps a week, and off your foot for at least five more. You need plenty of rest. The inspector says you can take all the time you need. Julia and Miss Newsome are taking excellent care of you."

"Effie," George agreed, and the left side of his mouth quirked upward.

"Not Effie. Ruth. Ruth is your nurse."

George blanched a little, and gave another slight smile. "Good Lord." He closed his eyes again.

"Julia says she's doing a good job." He squeezed his friend's arm once more. "I'll leave you be, George. You need sleep." William started to stand up from the chair.

"Not… yet, sir. William."

He sat back down. "What is it, George?"

"Amelia. Where… is she."

"She's in the morgue."

George's eyes grew wide. "The morgue."

"She's dead, George. Henry saved your life by ending hers."

"Oh. Oh." There was a long pause as George considered the news. "Thank… him for me… won't you?"

"I will. I will. And soon you'll be able to do it yourself."

"She was… most unwell."

"Clearly. George, I'm… glad she did not succeed in her intentions toward you."

"As am I."

Another long pause as the two men kept a companionable silence. William had decided days ago that he would not tell George about the other body in the morgue until he absolutely had to. _Best to keep him in the dark about that one as long as we can._

Finally he spoke. "I went to see Mrs. Keening. I've brought you something, George."

One eye opened. "My landlady? What's that, then?"

Murdoch smiled, remembering George's dedication to the favourite possession that he had lugged all the way to and from Haileybury because he couldn't sleep without it. William reached into the canvas bag he had with him, and handed George his pillow.


End file.
